Monday, July 25, 2016

Laundry. Depression. Laundry.

I brought a load of whites up from the basement just now. This might not seem like much to you but trust me, it's significant. I don't do laundry. Not for years. Oh, I'll fold laundry when it's laid before me, sure. And I've put the odd load on when it's vitally necessary, but generally this is my husband's forte. I cook, bake, clean the kitchen, do the bills and most of the grocery shopping. Dear sainted husband separates the whites from the colors, adds the detergent and makes sure the lint trap is cleaned. He keeps us clothed. Just me and him, because the three kids still at home do their own laundry. At least we taught them that much.

I'm depressed. No surprise there, at least not for me. I've battled this monster for years. Have I kept it well hidden from the rest of my world? Perhaps. Or perhaps not as well as I believe I have. I suppose I'm what you could call a functioning depressive? I know there are functioning alcoholics, functioning heroin addicts, functioning Republicans and Democrats. The problem is that you can only function so long with a mental illness, an addiction or the belief that yours is the only candidate to save the world.

I first went on antidepressants after my friend died from colon cancer. We were both young mothers. Our daughters were born days apart, we both gave birth to sons. While I recovered from my c-section, she never did. I began to have panic attacks, I'd run inside my house or frantically pace the dark street in front of my house in the night trying to suck oxygen into my dying self. Each night I was absolutely certain I was dying. Insomnia and small babies do not mix well. My physician at the time put me on Valium. Several times a day. One morning in church I was unable to remember the name of the man speaking from the pulpit. I knew that I knew him. I'd know him since I was a young girl. What was his name? I went home and dumped the remaining bottle of pills down the toilet.

After trying different antidepressants I found one that seemed to help. I stayed on it for a few years then tapered off and stopped. I was still depressed. I went back on antidepressants the first time my daughter tried to kill herself. I've been on them for three more suicide attempts, a few job losses, two moves, deaths of two more friends, a heroin addicted child and so much more. I do not have it worse than others. I do not have it better. It's just life. I threw myself a weekend pity party's after I lost my job last month. It was the only reason I got out of bed most days and poof it was gone. it hurt because I erroneously believed that these people were my friends. I loved my job. I was very, very good at it. Helping homeless students gave me purpose, broke my heart and caused me to count my blessings. They are making my position full time and adding more budgetary duties to it making it a few levels higher in the union. This means I can apply for it, which I am, but that doesn't mean I'll get it. I think perhaps my seven years of telling them this position needed more hours did not please the powers-that -be. But I digress.

Depression. I gots it. Today I am more down than usual. I've taken two hydrocodone due to a failing tooth. It's not helping with my I-don't-feel-like-adulting-today.

Where was I. Oh yeah, laundry. I'm about to fold it.

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